


A Study In Freedom

by Metronome_I_Hear



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Aromantic Cloud Strife, Asexual Cloud Strife, Bisexual Genesis Rhapsodos, Canon Divergence - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Child Soldiers, Crack Treated Seriously, Culture Shock, Exploring magic systems, Gen, Genesis Rhapsodos Does What Genesis Rhapsodos Wants, Harry is Genesis, Mentions of Past Sephiroth/Genesis Rhapsodos, Morally Ambiguous Character, One-sided Genesis Rhapsodos/Cloud Strife - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious take on a SOLDIER being reborn into the HP verse, Terminal Illnesses, The World Ended And Was Reborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronome_I_Hear/pseuds/Metronome_I_Hear
Summary: Genesis is a SOLDIER. Being uprooted from his own world and reborn countless millennia in the future doesn't change that.
Relationships: Genesis Rhapsodos & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Genesis Rhapsodos, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 14
Kudos: 144
Collections: Identity Crisis





	A Study In Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> "I was a fool, for when I gazed upon those wings I thought, ‘Angel’." ~Silver Elite Official Tumblr

“Where is Cloud?”

Genesis gets no answer from Delilah, nor Robert, or even Pete. Huo hasn’t seen him, neither has Myra and Sakura, and the only thing he gets from Takeshi is a nervous look--half afraid, half awed. Genesis huffs to himself, decides Cloud is once more not in the camp, and looks to the usual suspects.

Such is routine.

Once, he muses as he slips from the entrance to their little hideaway into the dead land beyond, someone else would have gone to find Cloud. Tifa, usually. She could break him out of his brooding like no one else could. Failing that, quiet and solemn Vincent would have slipped away four an hour and returned with Cloud trailing by his side, calmer and somehow steadier than he otherwise would be. But neither of them are here now--they haven’t been for quite some time. Thus it falls to Genesis, the duty of finding their fair leader when he slips away. 

High places are a good place to look. Cloud likes perching himself on cliffs. During a time when the wind still blew, Genesis liked joining him. It was the closest one could get to flight without using wings, and for all that Genesis’s own had saved the lives of their little group of survivors, it never failed to insight fear in those who followed them.

The first place Genesis looks is empty of all presence. The second, too, Cloud is nowhere to be found. Beyond the cliff face and in the wastes below, however, Genesis can see a lone monster prowling between rocks. It is thin and starved, but unmutated by Mako as far as Genesis can tell. A rarity these days, if not an impossibility. In all likelihood, the lack of crystalline flesh is naught but an illusion.

It is in the third place he checks that Genesis finds Cloud, sat on a sheer cliff face not far from camp. He sits with his feet dangling over the edge and First Tsurugi within easy grabbing distance next to him. Nothing moves in their sight, and the world is quiet beyond Genesis’s soft footsteps.

The sun sets in the distance, lighting the horizon in fire and outlining distant hills in black. With his face turned towards it, Cloud is lit up like a distant god on a crumbling throne. The king of a kingdom long since crumbled to ash and dust.

“My friend, do you fly away now? To a world that abhors you and I?” Genesis comes to a stop but a step behind Cloud. Then he waits.

Moments pass by, and Cloud is silent. Genesis is patient. When Cloud is in a mood like this, patience is key. And eventually, his patience is rewarded.

“How long?” he asks, and does not otherwise move. He gives no other acknowledgement that he knows Genesis is there. If one did not see Genesis standing there, they might have assumed Cloud was simply speaking to himself.

“We have water for two weeks,” Genesis informs him, deliberately misinterpreting the question. “And food for five days.”

Canned goods and other non perishables, miraculously found unlooted in the rotting shell of a nearby village. The scavenging group Genesis lead had taken what they could and returned to camp before they attracted any monsters. But with that, their sources had run dry. There would be no more clean water or edible food to be found here. They would have to move soon.

Cloud seems to slump. The exhaustion they all feel is etched into his every line. “You know that’s not what I meant.” His tone is flat. Genesis does not blame him.

Instead he reaches for the familiar. “Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul. Pride is lost. Wings stripped away, the end is nigh.” Poetry, which has stayed a loyal and faithful companion since he found his first copy of LOVELESS on his mother’s desk.

Cloud snorts, and the sound is a victory no matter how small.

_ It won’t be long now, _ Genesis thinks as the sun slipped below the horizon, the sky still alight with its fire.  _ It won’t be long at all. _

“Cloud?” he says, idly calculating how likely it was that they would reach someplace to scavenge more supplies before someone else lost their mind. 

Cloud hums in answer.

“I’m glad I met you.”

_ Even if I won’t get to know you for much longer, _ goes unsaid.

…

_ "Quick, he’s crashing!” _

Someone is yelling above his head, voice oddly muted through the haze of pain and nausea. He groans and tries to open his eyes. Where is he? What’s happening?

_ “We’re losing him, come on, come on!” _   
  


The world is blurry and bright and confusing. His stomach lurches and Genesis nearly throws up. He twitches his fingers and it sends agony up his arms, a lancing sharp pain that cuts through the haze. He chokes on his breath and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe. His lungs are heaving, but he’s not getting enough oxygen, and he’s gasping and where is he?

Where’s Cloud?   


_ “Where’s that potion I asked for?! Mckenzie!” _

Everything burns, from the pit of his stomach to the farthest reaches of his limbs. His head aches and everything seems so  _ bright. _ A twitch turns into more wild movement as he panics, memories of the labs coming to the forefront as hands hold him down--impossible.

_ “Don’t worry kid, you’ll be alright. We’ll take care of you.” _

…

At the first sound of screaming, Genesis is awake and rolling off his cot. Rapier is in his hand before he’s fully aware of it, and he’s already heading towards the entrance to his tent when Kevin rushes through the flap, sheer panic on his face. 

“They're invading the camp! They’re swarming!” He yells, red faced and wild eyed. Genesis opens his mouth to order him back out there--he can tell they’re being attacked, thank you very much, he can hear the screaming--when a clawed hand plunges through Kevin’s chest from behind.

Genesis doesn’t waste time mourning. There’s no point when the man’s body is being tossed to the side like so much meat by the monster that killed him. No point when the monster swipes long jagged crystalline claws with intent to kill him next. No point when Genesis cuts the monster down with a precise swing of his sword, sending it back to the lifestream before it has a chance to do much more than scream.

He’s already lost too many people. He doesn't want to lose any more.

( _ Sometimes, when the world is quiet and Genesis has no duties or people around to distract him, he’ll think back to his days at Shin-Ra. He’ll think of those evenings spent in the training room after all the Seconds left and the three of them claimed it for their own. He’ll think of Angeal and Sephiroth and his entire body will ache like an old would that refuses to heal _ )

A beat and Genesis is outside, ghosts chasing at his heels.

Screams of the dying ring in his ears and inhuman cries join them in some twisted sort of symphony. He leaps forth into the chaos, a firaga burning in one hand and his sword at the ready in the other, and joins the fray.

One monster is cut down, then another. He ducks under the whip of a spiked tail, lets his firaga loose upon the offender, and a third corpse lies upon the ground. The guard who’d been struggling against the beast pauses to stare at him, wide eyed and disbelieving, so Genesis barks at him, “Get the civilians to safety!” The guard nods hurriedly and rushes off. Genesis turns his attention back to the monsters.

They’re everywhere. Genesis hasn’t seen monsters in such high concentrations before--not since he was eighteen and the Wutains tried leading a stampede of them to break a Shin-Ra blockade. He’s not sure how many people will survive this. He doubts it’ll be many. 

A twist and a leaping monster, sharp claws outstretched, falls to the ground split in two. A flick of the wrist and another joins it. He summons fire and the mutated monsters burn. A fleeing civilian boy gets grabbed by one, and that monster too joins its brethren on the ground. He only pays attention to the boy long enough to be certain he’s out of range before he summons lightning down around him. 

He spreads his wing and takes to the sky, using aerial strikes to clear pathways for fleeing civilians and guard what few fighters they have left. Feathers fly down like arrows and sink deeply into crystallized flesh. The mutant’s screams are like music, like rapture.

_ Take that, _ he thinks a little hysterically. _ Feel the pain you’ve caused me. Feel the pain you’ve caused us all. _

“Genesis!” Cloud’s voice rings bright and clear and panicked in the air. Genesis sees him running towards him amidst a field of gore, two swords in hand. “Look out!” he’s screaming. He looks so scared and--

Pain.

Pain pain pain pain.

He chokes on blood and falls and the world goes black.

( _ The last thing he sees is the blue of the endless sky _ )

...

Kingsley signs the last of the papers and sighs in relief. Setting it onto the  _ Completed  _ stack and looking with satisfaction at the empty  _ To Be Completed _ stack, he decides to check just what time it was. 

He draws his wand and waves it, “Tempus,” and grimaces at the 21:30 it displays. He has spent far too much time catching up on paperwork. His shift ended more than an hour ago. He puts away his wand and stands with a groan. Between Order duties, fraying tensions within the ministry, and his usual work, Kingsley is exhausted. What he needs now is to go home and take some time to relax--

Merian throws open the door to Kingsley’s office with a loud bang, his hair standing on end and his eyes wide with panic. “Auror Shacklebolt!” 

Taking in the rather familiar look of stress on Merian’s face, Kingsley sighs. “Can it wait until morning?”

Merian makes a noise in his throat like he’s trying to say something and can’t quite get the words out. It ends up sounding a bit like he’s a strangled cat, which is just about what can be expected with a stressed Merian. He shakes his head wildly in a ‘no’ and that--that is the moment Kingsley resigns himself to another all-nighter.

He raises his hands in what he hopes is a soothing gesture and steps closer. “Calm down, Merian. I can’t help until you’ve told me what’s wrong.”

Merian wrings his hands in his robes and takes a deep breath. In, out. Then he squeaks and says, “Harry Potter has been attacked by dementors!”

Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin, no. 

Feeling rather faint, Kingsley grabs Merian by the shoulders and resists the urge to shake him. “What?!”

“Harry Potter! Dementors! In Little Whining, he was attacked! We got a call from a squib called Arabella and there’s this muggle kid dead, he’s been kissed, and Harry Potter’s been attacked! Merlin, Kingsley, you need to get to Surrey now--” Merian is babbling, but Kingsley is already rushing out of the office and out of the Ministry. 

By the time Kingsley reaches the crime scene, there are already three other Aurors there, as well as a Healer examining a body on the ground. As he gets closer, Kingsley recognizes the body as Potter’s muggle cousin, Dudley Dursley. One of the Aurors is speaking quietly with Arabella, and the other two stand with the Healer. Arabella looks shaken and pale, wrapped up in a blanket as she is, chocolate in one hand. She catches his eye and looks somewhat relieved to see him, despite the grimness of the situation. Before he can get the chance to talk with her though, one of the Auror’s with the Healer--a muggle born witch named Karine Mcevoy Kinglsey has worked with before--waves him over. 

“Kingsley, good you’re here. It’s a right mess.” She tells him. 

An unfamiliar Auror by her side snorts. “That’s one way to put it. The mess this is going to make--”

“Shut it, D’fini.” Mcevoy barks, before turning back to him. “Looks like the attack occurred about fifteen minutes ago. We don’t have any witnesses other than the Squib, Miss Arabella Figg. She lives near here raising kneazles, apparently. Auror Kass is speaking with her now. Harry Potter’s at St Mungo’s. No muggles other than the kid was present, so at least there’s no need for an Obliviator squad. We’re going to have to figure out who the kid is and contact his parents or guardians though--”

Kingsley raises a hand and interrupts her. “His name is Dudley Dursley. He’s Harry Potter’s cousin. They live in the same house, as far as I’m aware.”

“And how did you know that?” D’fini asks, sounding half incredulous, half suspicious. 

Kingsley runs a hand down his face. “I was one of the people assigned to find Potter two years ago during that case of accidental magic--with his aunt blowing up like a balloon? That one. What about St Mungo’s? Do we have guards assigned yet? Until we know how Dementors got to Little Whining and why, we’ll need a twenty four hour guard--to keep the media away if nothing else. Last thing we need right now is a shit storm on that end.”

Mcevoy shakes her hair. “No. Auror D’fini, get on that? Auror Kingsley and I can handle talking to the kid’s parents--the Dursley’s right? Do you remember the address?”

D’fini makes a half assed salute and apparates away. Kingsley nodded, “Yes, it’s house number four, Private drive--not far from here. What about the Minister? Has he been informed yet?”

“I’d assume so, Sir.”

Kingsley grimaces as he imagines what will probably await him when he gets back at the Ministry. “Right. Dealing with the Dursleys first then.”

This is not going to be a nice night, is it? And someone still needed to tell Dumbledore.

…

“How could this have happened?!” Sirius yells, his hands waving wildly in the air as he paces the length of the meeting room. His eyes are half mad. “Who was on watch?! Why is--?!”

“Mundungus Fletcher was on watch.” Remus says, half hunched in his chair. He looks exhausted. They’re all exhausted. “He’s missing now, we’re tracking him down--”

Moody slams his staff on the floor. “There’s a reason I told you not to trust Mundungus--there’s a reason I kept insisting on pairs for surveillance rather than single watchers! Constant Vigilance! This entire situation could have been avoided if only you’d  _ listened--” _

“Someone in the Ministry did this, there’s no other group capable of companding dementors and no reason for them to go on their own--”

“Harry! In St Mungo’s! Oh, Merlin, is he going to be alright?!” Molly grippes her hair and wails.

“Enough!” Dumbledore calls. Most of the room grows quieter as they turn their attention to their leader. “We need order before we may discuss what we will do next. Kingsley, an update if you will?”

Kingsley downs the last of the coffee Molly had made him and stands, looking like he needs at least five more and a pepper up. “Potter spent eight hours under intensive care before stabilizing into a healing coma. I’m told he woke briefly, but was delirious and did not speak--he should be awake in two or three days. Guards have been assigned to him. At least two Aurors are at his door at all times. We had a bit of an issue with the media nearly breaking in at one point, but they were kicked out before it became a problem. The Minister is the real problem--he’s up in arms about this and throwing accusations around without any real evidence. It’s clear that he’s panicking. He’s assigned me to be head of the investigation into who sent the dementors. It’s too early to say who just yet. I’ll need more time on that front.”

Molly asks, “Then he’s alright? His soul is intact?”

“As far as the Healers can tell, yes. I’m told there may be side effects we can’t detect until he wakes up properly, but for now he’s stable if nothing else.” Kingsley looks to Arabella. “Speaking of which, are you doing alright? It couldn’t have been easy, going through what you did.”

Arabella smiles at him. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just glad help arrived in time.”

Kingsley nods and turns back to the rest of them. “More immediately worrying is that Potter’s wand was broken--it seems his cousin snapped it in a confrontation shortly before the dementors arrived--”

“That boy! I’ll kill him!” Sirius surges forward. 

Remus grabs him and attempts to wrestle him into a chair. “Sirius, no--it’s not the boy’s fault, I know how you feel but you  _ must remain calm--” _

“--And that the Dursleys are apparently refusing to even speak of Potter,” Kingsley continues as if Sirius isn’t even there, his shoulders sagging as he does. “They said they never wish to see the boy again--among other things. They blame Potter for their son’s death. I doubt it would be good for Potter or the Dursleys to return there--especially if the position is already compromised.”

“Thank you, Kingsley.” Dumbledore bows his head. Kingsley collapses back in his chair. “Then we must discuss our next move. We’ll need to inform the children of this. They can’t remain in the dark about what’s happened. I’ll need to speak with the Healer in charge of Harry’s case, and I suspect the children will want to visit him. Molly?”

“I’ll tell them. You’re right, they deserve to know about this--oh, Harry! How could this have happened?” Molly shakes her head and closes her eyes, close to tears. “A visit, yes, that too. Certainly. Is it possible to arrange one for tomorrow?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kingley tells her.

…

Harry is quiet on the bed. His hair falls out around him like a wild black halo and his skin is flushed with fever. His breathing is soft and quiet. He’s so still. Hermione has seen Harry sick or injured many times before. From their very first year he was always ending up in the hospital wing for one reason or another. 

She enters the room and stays back as the twins and Ginny surround the bed. Ron takes up a place next to her, a steady rock at her side. Mrs Weasley looks at her with sympathy in her eyes, putting a hand on her shoulder as she tells her, tells them, “He’ll get better, don’t worry. He’s just sleeping for now.”

_ I know,  _ Hermione thinks as Mrs Weasley joins Dumbledore with a Healer in the corner of the room. They speak in quiet whispers, muffled unnaturally with magic, and a part of Hermione desperately wants to know what they’re saying. _ I know he’ll get better. _

She has faith in the Healers of St Mungo’s. They’re the best the British Wizarding World has to offer, even if they rarely have to deal with the aftermath of a dementor’s attack. If there’s anyone who can patch Harry up and make him as well as he was before, it will be the Healers of St Mungo’s. 

That doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t make it any easier to see her best friend like this. Doesn’t make it any easier to see him lying on the bed, utterly still after an attack the Order should have been able to prevent. Doesn’t make it any easier picturing it happening, especially when she knows that Harry’s greatest fears are dementors themselves.

_ If only his cousin hadn’t snapped his wand, _ she thinks furiously--only that’s not fair. It’s not Dudley Dursley’s fault they were attacked. It’s the fault of whoever sent the dementors there.

“It’s not right,” Ron murmurs. He sounds choked. Hesitant. Not at all brave. Hermione slips her hand in his. He squeezes it and she’s grateful for the anchor.

“It’s not,” she agrees, because it isn’t. It’s never fair seeing things like this happening when there are adults who should be helping, who should be preventing things like this,  _ who should be doing something. _

“He doesn’t deserve this.” Bitterness seeps into Ron’s voice as he speaks. “He doesn’t deserve  _ any _ of this. Not the papers, not the way the Ministry is treating him, not, not--this!” He grits his teeth and Hermione squeezes his hand back.

“It’s the Ministry’s fault.”

“It’s possible it was someone else,” Hermione reminds him, but--

“Do you really believe that?”

Hermione purses her lips. “No.”

Which leaves the question. What can they do? They’re school children who haven’t even started their fifth year. They have no influence in the Ministry, no method of investigating the perpetrators, no way of bringing them to justice. All they can do is stand here and watch as the Weasleys gather by Harry’s bedside, as Mrs Weasley and Dumbledore speak quietly with the Healer in the corner, and as Lupin speaks with the Aurors guarding the door.

“This can’t go on.” Of this she is certain. 

“It can’t.” Of this he agrees.

She turns to look at Ron. He’s changed a great deal from the eleven year old boy who so callously sent her crying to the girl’s bathroom back in their first year. He’s grown since then. She has too. And Harry alongside them.

They’ve been pushed aside by the Order. None of them are getting any information about the attack, about why it happened or what they’re doing about it. And Hermione? Hermione is tired of being left in the dark, of watching as people get hurt, and being told to stay behind.

“Then what are we going to do about it?” she asks him.

The resolution Hermione feels burning inside her shines back at her in Ron’s eyes, and the two begin to plot.

…

The thing about plotting to do something about their powerlessness in this situation, is that they actually needed a starting point to jump off of. So when Hermione and Ron arrive back at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, they sequester themselves in the Library and start making a list of what they need to create that jumping off point.

Clicking her muggle pen and scribbling in her muggle notebook, Hermione declares, “We need more information. Who is controlling the dementors? Who is capable of controlling the dementors? Who has a motive to send a pair after Harry? What are the presidents in a situation like this? Is there anything that can be done to prevent it?” She writes down each question as she says it. 

“If Harry had his wand, he would’ve been able to cast a patronus to defend himself.” Ron says, looking over her shoulder.

“That would set off the trace--” Hermione points out. She makes note of the trace and to look into possible ways to get rid of it. They were at war and she has no doubt that there were Death Eaters in the Ministry capable of using the trace against them.

Ron crosses his arms and gives her a look. Hermione huffs. “Look--It’s going to become a problem. Just think about how corrupt the Ministry is proving itself right now--is this really the time to be concerning ourselves with the law?!”

They pause as they realize that their usual roles had been reversed. Then they started to laugh. To think that she, rule abiding Hermione, would be the one to suggest breaking the law!

“In all seriousness, it’s going to become a problem. It can be used against us in other ways--didn’t Dobby use it to get Harry in trouble our second year?” Hermione points out.

“Ah.” Ron furrows his brow. “I think I remember that. Yeah. Crazy house elf.”

Hermione nods. “He’s on our side, but there are plenty of enslaved houselves who aren’t. And that’s just one way the trace can be used against us. We need to figure out a way to break it. Other than that, I need to look up Wizarding Law. It might come in handy some time soon. If Voldemort--” Ron flinches. “--oh, come on, it’s just a name--if Voldemort wants to stay in the shadows, then it’s likely that the war will be waged on a legal level for now. Especially since the Ministry is still hiding it’s head in the sand. We’ll need to look more into dementors specifically as well.” She made more notes, marking each point they needed to expand upon. “When Harry gets out of St Mungo’s I want us to be able to support him to our fullest capacity. And--” she hesitates.

“...what?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “We need to know what’s going on in the Order meetings. They’re not telling us anything, so we need a way in.”

Ron chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “Fred and George could do it. They’re bound to have  _ something  _ that’ll let us in.”

Hermione nods resolutely. “Then we’ll have to ask them.”

Ron nods and scans over the list she’s making. “If we’re getting them involved, we should talk to Ginny too. She’s not going to stand for being left out.”

“You’re right--let’s gather them and ask?”

…

Genesis wakes to the smell of antiseptic and a scent not unlike ozone lingering just under that. His head throbs in tandem with his breath, his gut rolls with nausea, and his joints contain a persistent ache. 

He groans and tries to open his eyes. The sight he’s greeted with is an unfamiliar white ceiling, and even that is blurred with sleep. He blinks and the blur stubbornly sticks around.

What happened? Where is he? And why does he feel so  _ awful? _ The last time he felt this bad was after his first mako treatments, way back when he was fourteen. 

His mouth tastes like cotton, and his body feels… strange. He keeps blinking, and the blurriness clears. He’s in a… hospital room? Or, something like one?

But that’s impossible. There are no more hospitals. They’ve all been destroyed, by monsters and fire and looting if they survived all that. Even their little camp didn’t have any medicis left, just Cloud and Genesis with their Cures and Esunas trying to treat all the injuries their people accumulated and--

The camp!

Genesis tries to sit up and immediately regrets that decision. And every decision that led him to this point. A cough wracks up his body and it makes his ribs and his lungs burn. His throat is dry and the ache in his joints  _ isn’t leaving _ and what the hell happened to him?

His head pounds every time he shifts and it makes it difficult to think. 

“His fever’s finally broken,” says a feminine voice from beyond the door to his room. It’s faint, but getting louder, and so is the sound of footsteps and swishing fabric. “He’s doing much better now, might even wake soon. Healer Peters seems to think so at least, and he’s usually right about this sort of thing.”

The handle on the door to his room turns as the door opens, and too bright light spills into the room. Genesis squints against it and ends up just closing his eyes and grimacing instead. He’s too light sensitive for this, and everything he does hurts, and who in the Goddess’s name are these people anyways?

“It’s lucky with how touch and go he was for a--he’s awake!” The voice cuts straight through his headache, and Genesis groans.

“Quiet,” he hisses the word. “And close the door?” He demands. Croaks, really. It sounds more like a plea. Goddess, his throat is dry.

The door is quickly shut and Genesis opens his eyes again to blissfully low light. There are two people in the room with him now, a man and a woman. The woman comes towards him and pulls a stick from--her robes? Why robes? Then she starts waving it in patterns over his body and he feels the tell-tale tingle of mana wash over his senses. The stick is a type of focus then. Definitely one of the stranger ones he’s seen. Where would you even equip the materia in that stick?

“Thirsty?” The man asks. He’s holding a cup with a straw and Genesis gratefully drinks. Even turning his head hurts right now. 

“Where am I?” he rasps when he’s done. The woman--the name tag on her robes reads Mckenzie--smiles at him.

“You’re in St Mungo’s Hospital,” she tells him. “You’ve been in an accident. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I--” He grimaces. The man waves his own stick--what is with the sticks?--and the ache in his chest eases instantly. It makes it easier to breathe, and thus easier to answer. “I was fighting. The camp was--attacked. By monsters. There were so many of them. We were overrun.”

Mckenzie pauses in her casting, and the man stills as well. His head throbs as he speaks, so it barely registers. 

“What happened to the camp?” What happened to Cloud? “Are there any other survivors?” And how, for that matter, had these people been able to rescue him in the first place?

He thinks of the fear on Cloud’s face, that desperate horror as he ran towards Genesis.  _ Oh, Cloud. _

Mckenzie and the man exchange a glance. All of a sudden, Genesis feels uneasy. 

“Camp?” Mckenzie says, somewhat slowly. “What exactly do you mean by the camp?”

“The camp I lead,” Genesis snaps at her, frustrated and somewhat worried. “Do you mean to tell me you have no idea about what’s happening? About the mako mutated monsters?  _ The apocalypse? _ Or is this place so  _ sheltered _ you wouldn’t know?” Then he groans, because his head didn’t appreciate the rant.

“Mako muta--” Mckenzie stops herself short, suddenly rather pale. “The apocalypse?” 

“Yes,” Genesis says. “Or did you not get the memo?”

Mckenzie grimaces. “Go get Healer Peters,” she tells the man. The man nods somewhat frantically before rushing from the room.

Bad sign. Very bad sign.

( _ “He’s delirious,” Hojo says, disinterested eyes gazing over the SOLDIER on the bed. “That won’t due at all.” _

_ Genesis can do nothing but watch. _ )

A breath. “What,” Genesis says, slowly, deliberately. His head spins. “--Is going on?”

“Well,” Mckenzie starts, before stopping and wringing her hands on the fabric of her robe. “You weren’t sent here because of a monster attack, or--you were, but not--” her nose wrinkled. She looks confused, and slightly disbelieving, and entirely too nervous. “By  _ mako mutated monsters. _ ” She says  _ mako mutated _ like she’s never heard of the concept before, which is impossible. Monsters mutated by mako had been around for almost as long as there had been mako. Genesis remembers being told not to venture too far from Banora by his mother when he was little because of mutated monster sightings. He used to go out on clearing missions as a Third, more than 20 years ago, to get rid of them. They’d only gotten more numerous as the years went by, and now the world was facing numbers where if the monster wasn’t mutated, you were probably hallucinating or dreaming or--

He takes a deep breath.

“You were attacked by dementors,” Mckenzie informs him. “You had an adverse reaction to nearly being given the dementor’s kiss, and it required immediate treatment.”

His head throbs. He can’t think, he can’t breathe. Where is he, really? What in the name of the goddess happened to him?!

“What is a dementor’s kiss?” he asks. He breathes and the burning sensation in his ribs flares with each breath. Gods, he has not missed this. Why does he feel like this? “What is a dementor?”

Mckenzie looks increasingly uncomfortable. “A dark creature. They suck the happiness out of those they encounter, and feed on human souls. The act of a dementor sucking out a human’s soul is referred to as a dementor’s kiss.” Her speech is halting and uncertain and this, more than anything else, convinces Genesis that something is very, very wrong here.

He doesn’t have time to process this before the door opens again and he’s forced to squeeze his eyes shut when the light sends lances of pain through his skull. Gaia damn them all, he wishes he could have  _ something  _ for all this blasted pain. It darkens and Genesis opens his eyes to find two men in his room, both the one who left earlier and a new one entirely. The new man stalks forward, blank faced and utterly professional, pulls yet another stick from his robes and begins waving it in the air above Genesis just as the other two had.

“Good day,” the man greets, somewhat clipped in his manner of speech. “My name is Frank Peters, and I’m a Healer here at St Mungo’s. I was assigned as the head Healer on your case. I’m going to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind answering.”

The man flicks his stick and the pain in Genesis’s chest eases once more. As does the pain in his head and the nausea rolling in his gut. It is  _ blissful. _ “Go ahead.”

“What is your name?”

“Genesis Rhapsodos.” Genesis doesn't miss the shocked and worried expressions that flit over the faces of Mckenzie and the first man. Healer Peters is entirely unphased.

“Age?”

“36.” More shocked expressions.

“Birthplace?”

“Banora.”

“Where did you receive your schooling?”

And what did that have to do with anything? “I received basic education in Banora, and advanced education in Midgar.”

“I see.” Peters lowers the stick. The look he gives Genesis is measuring, and Genesis stares right back. “Are you familiar with the names Cornelius Fudge, Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts, or Diagon Alley?”

“No.”

Peters nods, as if this was exactly what he expected. “Well, Mr Rhapsodos. I’m sorry to inform you that you have died and been reincarnated.”

...What?

For a moment, Genesis believes he must have misheard, but no. This man looks entirely serious. He hadn’t misheard in the least. “Excuse me?” 

“I know it must be a shock,” Peters continues. “And I don’t expect you to believe me right away. These are most unusual circumstances, after all.”

“Unusual--?!” Genesis’s ribs lance with pain before he can continue, and he is forced to lay back and settle himself down.

“Hmm, Rahi. Fetch pain-relief, anti-inflammatory, and anti-nausea potions. Some chocolate as well.” Peters commands. The first man, Rahi apparently, nods and runs off.

When Genesis can breathe without wanting to stab himself to end it all, he sends a vicious glare at Peters. “ _ Explain. _ ”

Peters, utterly unphased by Genesis’s gaze, nods and waves his stick. A spark of mana and, of all things, a  _ chair _ appears out of nowhere. Peters takes a seat and begins to speak.

“I’m uncertain if we use the same calendar or not, but on August 2nd, four days ago, St Mungos received a call that a 15 year old boy by the name of Harry Potter was attacked by dementors and needed immediate treatment. He was brought here, suffering from high fever, convulsions, severe dementor overexposure, and the effects of an interrupted dementor’s kiss. A dementor’s kiss is, in essence, the removal of the soul from the host body, and the interrupted removal can have a number of adverse effects on the body, soul and mind. One effect it can have, though it isn’t a very common one, is the remembrance of a previous life.”

( _ “You were attacked by dementors. You had an adverse reaction to nearly being given the dementor’s kiss, and it required immediate treatment.” _ )

“The reason why this happens, we can only theorize. It’s not a very well studied field, for obvious reasons. Most Healers agree the fault lies in the trauma of the sudden removal. Most people don’t have the strength of will to be able to recover from such a thing easily, so the soul reaches for a life it’s lived that does have the strength of will. In all likelihood, this is what has happened to you.”

“The trauma of the kiss,” Genesis repeats flatly. What madness. He was just--

He takes a deep breath and breaks out into a coughing fit.

“You need rest, Mr Rhapsodos.” He needs rest only so he can rend Peters’s head from his body--!

The door opens again and Genesis is getting really tired of that blasted light sensitivity.

“I have the potions, Sir.”

“Good, good. Anti-nausea first.”

The potion they feed him tastes like moldy socks and overripe bananas, but it settles his stomach and for the first time since waking he no longer feels like rolling to the side of the bed and emptying the contents of his stomach over the floor.

“Sweet,  _ merciful Goddess. _ ”

“Anti-inflammatory.” And the ache in his joints dies down. The burning in his ribs settles. “Pain-relief.” Oh, his head.  _ So _ much better.

Well. If nothing else, these people can treat whatever’s wrong with him.

Reincarnation. What an absurd notion. And yet--

Peters hands him a bar of chocolate. “Eat this. It’ll help with the cold.” He was cold? He takes a bite of the chocolate and warmth spreads through his body. Ah. So he  _ was  _ cold. 

Peters eyes him for a moment, before nodding to himself. “There are other effects you need to be informed of, Mr Rhapsodos.”

“Other effects?” Genesis asks, somewhat weary. 

“I assume your eyes were blue in your last life?” A flick of his stick produces a hand mirror. Peters holds it in front Genesis’s face and--

Genesis’s mouth falls open.

There, in the mirror, is an unfamiliar face. The face of a boy not yet a man, with unruly black hair that frames his face, a faded scar sitting on his forehead. He reaches up with a hand to touch his cheeks and the boy in the mirror copies him. It’s not--It’s not an  _ entirely  _ unfamiliar face. He and the boy share the same high cheekbones, the same slope of his nose, but his eyes are a different shape, wider than he remembers them ever being, and he doesn't recall ever looking quite so young.

His eyes are also bright, mako blue.

“They were green in this one,” Peters informs him, and his voice is a distant thing. Genesis traces the arch of his lips, the curve of his jaw, and watches the boy in the mirror copy his every move. He is, he is about the age Genesis was when he first joined SOLDIER. Maybe a bit older. No--he is a year older. Fifteen, Peters had said. Harry Potter is fifteen.

Impossible. Yet undeniable. 

“...What happens now?” The boy in the mirror mouths the words along with him.

“It is likely that other things from your past life will leak into this one. Your eye color, you’ve already seen. You can also expect significant scars, hair color, curses, and other such things to transfer over in due time. As for your memories… Your memories of being Mr Potter will likely return in time. Familiar spaces and people should help with this, but do not be alarmed if it takes years before everything returns. It is also entirely possible some memories will never return at all. I would recommend looking into Occlumency, the art of organizing and guarding the mind from mental attacks, to help with settling the old memories with the ones you have now.” Utterly professional. Genesis can’t help but hate him a little for it. Can he not see Genesis flailing in the wind, like he’d been flying when suddenly his wing was ripped from his back, leaving him to plummet to the ground?

His wing. Did this mean he no longer had his wing?

“You’ll also, of course, have to relearn about the world you’ve been reborn into. I’m unfamiliar with the places you named, so by my best guess you must be from a distant past of some sort or another. Expect to need a lot of things explained in the immediate future. Mr Potter was attending a boarding school called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If the style of magic you used in your last life is different from the one used now, I would recommend attending as he did, perhaps hiring extra help on the side to get you caught up on the material you’ve lost. If not, you can take the required tests at the Ministry to graduate early. Other than that, your magical guardian will be informed that you’ve woken and he’ll take care of getting you re-acquainted with modern society and the like.”

“Magical guardian? Hogwarts? Ministry tests?”

He feels oddly light. He feels--he feels like he’s not entirely there anymore, and almost wishes the pain would return if only so he would have something to hold onto. What is he supposed to do?

“Albus Dumbledore is your magical guardian. The magical and muggle worlds--that is, those capable of using magic and those incapable of it, were separated centuries ago. Your file has you listed as living with your maternal muggle aunt, and she’s incapable of making legal decisions for you within the Wizarding world. In the case that a child either has no guardians or only has muggle ones, the headmaster of Hogwarts is set as their magical guardian. Hogwarts is the sole school for teaching magic in Britain, and is reputed as among the best in the world. If you seek to take the Ministry’s tests instead, you’ll have to contact the Education department.”

Seperated. Magic and mundane were  _ separated. _ Genesis can’t believe it. How could something so intertwined with everyday life be separated from the rest of the world? How, when every being on the entire planet held within them mana, even the machines humans created? 

What exactly happened after Genesis fell in that camp?

( _ “Genesis!” Cloud, dearest Cloud, why do you look so scared? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you behind. I didn’t mean to die. “Look out!” _ )

Genesis takes a shuddering breath. The room is too small. He is too small and his skin is too tight. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in the camp. He’s supposed to be getting some rest because they were packing up and moving in the morning, heading West towards Wutai in the hopes of scavenging for more supplies. He’s supposed to be in his cot, with Kevin just outside his door and Kevin would greet him with that tired smile he always does and Genesis and Cloud would have a meager breakfast and then they’d get moving and--

And--

“My friend,” he gasps, curling in on himself. “The fates are cruel.”

“Indeed they are, Mr Rhapsodos,” Healer Peters says. “Indeed they are.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the rewrite of a story I wrote two years ago now. It started as something of a spite fic? I kept seeing all these stories where SOLDIERs were being reborn into or otherwise ended up in Harry Potter, but all of them ended up veering too far into crack territory. I'm not saying that's a bad thing? Some of them were genuinely funny, at least for a time. It's just that I wanted to see a serious take on the idea. And there weren't any. Too this day, two years later, there still aren't any but mine. At least, none that I've been able to find.
> 
> I rewrote this story, and am still rewriting this story, because my first attempt was somewhat rushed in my eagerness to get the idea of a serious FFVII HP crossover out there. I had a few plot-holes I didn't notice until later, I totally fucked up my calendar (I somehow managed to stretch the calendar by two and a half weeks?? Somehow???) and there was some OOCness because I hadn't quite managed to get a good grasp on the characters and where I wanted this story to go. So I started rewriting it.
> 
> That rewrite ended up soaking in Haitus hell for two years. Oops?
> 
> Regardless, the first chapter is finished, as you can see, and I'm a decent way through the second chapter. Unlike last time, I also have an outline for the next few chapters and will be adding to it as it builds on me. The characters keep surprising me? (I didn't quite expect Ron and Hermione to react quite so viciously, for example) so I haven't yet plotted out the entire thing, so I can make allowances for unexpected plot. I've also yet to actually watch anyone play or play for myself the new remake, so any new canon from there is being disregarded. If I manage to get my hands on the game, that may change. But for now it's gonna remain non-canon to this fic.
> 
> In other news, this may just be the longest chapter I have ever written.
> 
> Please comment! Ask questions and tell me what I'm doing good on and what I'm fucking up on. I don't have a beta for this, and I'm not really looking for one seeing as I've never really had a good one, so if there's a grammar or spelling errors or a plot-hole I've somehow managed to miss, feel free to yell at me. Flamers will be deleted, however, be warned.


End file.
